The Ravi Lancers (26 page)

Warren drank again, thirsty now. Krishna Ram gone ... There had been times recently when he had almost wished for something like this, for the young man seemed to be wilfully opposing him. If there was any discontent and intrigue among the officers, he’d be the focus of it, with his rank and royal blood he could hardly help that ... and now he was gone, and in truth the odds were five to one against ever seeing him again. He felt saddened, as sad as the memory of Ishar Lall lying shattered in the bottom of the trench. Krishna was a good young man ... Indian, more Indian than he perhaps realized, but good, and brave. He did not have to risk his life; and now he was gone.

What was he to do about the disaster of the battle? His men had run away. Even Bholanath had been unable to prevent it. They had acted illogically, running when the artillery fire made it suicidal, running when they could have held the Germans, as B Squadron had shown. They were Indians, that was the answer--their minds didn’t work the same way, even yet. But, what sort of an answer was that, when he knew that in the old days the Rajputs had gone out en masse to die in hopeless battle against the Moguls; and while the battle raged, the Rajput woman had burned themselves to death on vast funeral pyres inside the beleaguered fortress? Was the failure due to something in the conditions of this particular war? He remembered the words of the Commissioner in Lahore ... ‘the gods of Europe do not speak Hindi...’

Dayal Ram said, ‘Sir, the Punjabis’ attack has been cancelled. The brigade commander wants to see you at his HQ.’

Warren nodded, too weary to speak.

Brigadier-General Rogers was angry. ‘The attack failed,’ he snapped, ‘when I had promised General Glover that it would succeed. Why? What am I going to tell him?’

‘It was not difficult to take the German front line,’ Warren said. ‘I think they moved most of their men from it as soon as our preliminary bombardment began. But unless the second and third lines are also taken in the same assault the Germans are ready there for a counterattack. The trenches that have just been captured face the wrong way and there’s no barbed wire to hold up a counterattack.’

‘Your men ran away, I am told,’ the general said coldly.

‘Yes, sir. The bombardment up there was very heavy. I was in it.’

‘The Fusiliers held on your right.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Warren said.

British troops were more used to noises, blasts, and machines, he thought. Besides, they were British. But, then, his men were Rajputs.

‘What do you propose to do to raise the morale of your regiment?’

‘I haven’t worked it out yet, sir,’ Warren said. ‘I think probably the answer is to institute aggressive patrolling. I must prove to the sowars that they are as good men as the Germans, which they are.’

That would help them stand up under the impersonal rain of steel. They had not lost their pride, from what he had seen, as British troops would have done, knowing they had disgraced themselves. They had been assailed by something no Indian had ever known, that there was nothing in his blood or experience to prepare him for, and now they were considering.

‘They’ll be all right, sir,’ Warren said. ‘We need a little more infantry training.’

‘I thought you were clamouring for action on foot,’ the general snapped. ‘You told me when you were converted that the men felt ashamed of seeing no fighting while the infantry were suffering so heavily.’ The monocle gleamed angrily in his eye.

Warren said, ‘Yes, sir. But when we actually lost our horses the world was turned upside down for the men. I didn’t realize quite how lost they would feel. This attack came before they were mentally sure again ... sure of who they are.’

‘They’d better learn.’

‘Yes, sir ... I would like to have another British officer posted to me.’

‘You’ve lost the Yuvraj fellow, haven’t you?’

‘He’s missing. I’m sending patrols out to look for him.’

‘He seemed a good chap, for one of these fat rajah’s sons. Full of opium all the time, I suppose, like the rest of them.’

‘I don’t think so, sir. He was a very good cricketer.’

‘Well, about another BO ... You realize he’d have to be your second-in-command? Can’t have natives ordering British officers about, especially not States Forces fellows.’

‘No, sir,’ Warren said. Personally he wouldn’t have minded a junior officer. A young man would learn a lot serving under such as Bholanath and even Krishna Ram ... if he came back. But the general was probably right from the point of view of the army as a whole.

The general said, ‘Well, I’ll try, but officers trained to serve with Indian troops don’t grow on trees, you know. And we’ve lost half a dozen in this attack already.’

Warren saluted and started trudging back up the line. Brigade headquarters was two miles in rear of his own rear area. They couldn’t have seen anything of what was going on in the attack from back there, and no one had come forward to see for himself. No one had come forward since the attack ended, either. His orderly, at his heels, said, ‘The sahib should go to RAP now.’

Warren said, ‘What for?’

‘To have his wound properly dressed.’

‘Oh, that.’ Warren had forgotten about it and as the dried cut was under his hat the general had not seen it. ‘But I must visit the wounded.’

He turned off the shell-pocked muddy road just before the trench lines began, and found the RAP in the ruins of a cowshed, the vanished roof replaced by tarpaulins and a large red cross painted on the front wall, facing the Germans.

The smells of formaldehyde and carbolic were overpowering, and the colour was red ... red stained earth and red stained khaki bandages, the soldiers’ brown faces reddened by the hurricane lanterns placed on benches and empty shell boxes down the muddy floor. Captain Ramaswami was operating in the corner on a man sitting on a table, holding out his hand. The doctor was digging a sliver of steel out of the hand. The man’s face was wet with sweat and he had the end of his turban clenched between his teeth. The doctor finished, expertly bandaged the wound and said, ‘All right. You can go now.’

Warren said, ‘Didn’t you give him an anaesthetic?’

‘Don’t have enough to spare. Besides, he didn’t want to be sent back to the CCS. He just wanted to be returned to his squadron.’

‘Which is that?’

‘A.’

Warren thought, that’s the squadron that started the debacle. And this man wanted to get back up the line rather than rest in safety for a few days.

‘How’s Ishar Lall,’ he asked.

‘Dead,’ the doctor said coldly, as though Warren had killed him himself.

Warren frowned at the black face, and was about to make a sharp retort; but Ishar Lall was dead. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘He was one of the best.’

The doctor’s surly expression softened a little and he said, ‘He had no business coming to this war and dying this way . . . ‘

‘How many men have you treated here,’ Warren interrupted.

‘Forty-eight. Sent twenty back to CCS and ten back to their squadrons. I can hold the rest. Three died here of wounds, including 2nd Lieutenant Ishar Lall.’

‘You’ve done well,’ Warren said.

‘Well? Patching these men up so that they can get back into this murderous war? I would be doing a thousand times better saving one woman in Madras.’

Warren lost his temper and shouted, ‘If you want to get out of the fighting, Ramaswami, put in an official request and I’ll see that it is forwarded to brigade. Or go and see the ADMS.’

He walked out, his orderly muttering, ‘Your wound, sahib.’

He snapped, ‘Quiet, son! Say no more.’

He trudged up the communication trenches towards the front. He must put Himat Singh in for another DSO. And speak to Puran Lall about A Squadron. Of course, the poor fellow had hardly been in command ten minutes when it happened. With his twin brother dying beside him. And there was the
panchayat
on Sher Singh which he had decided to hold. The general would have a fit if he knew. The general was going to lose one medal because of the failure of the attack--Warren could sense it--and if the truth about this affair ever reached him ... Still, he must go through with it.

He reached RHQ and said, ‘Send for Major Bholanath.’

The major came soon and Warren said, ‘I have decided that the matter of Captain Sher Singh’s behaviour should be judged by a
panchayat
. It shall consist of yourself, as a prince of the blood and representative of the rajah, your brother. Captain Ramaswami. Lieutenant Dayal Ram. Rissaldar-Major Baldev Singh. And the Pandit-ji.’

‘It is understood, sahib,’ the old major said in Hindi.

‘Hold it here, as soon as you can. Give no decision to the prisoner, but advise me before midnight what you recommend.’

‘It is understood, sahib.’

‘Make proper arrangements to be recalled to your squadrons in case of alarm.’

‘It is understood, sahib ... I was going to go out with the patrol to look for my great-nephew, the Yuvraj.’

‘You’re too senior for that. Send your rissaldar.’

‘The Yuvraj is of my blood, sahib.’

‘Hukm hai!’
Warren snapped. ‘You have plenty of work in your squadron, to see that it does not run away again.’

‘They have blackened my face,’ the old man said seriously. ‘They know it. They will not do it again. It was the noise, sahib, and the sight of A Squadron running ... It is said that Lieutenant Flaherty killed Rissaldar Shamsher Singh.’

‘Yes. On my order. He wasn’t dead when we had to leave, but he couldn’t have lived for long.’

‘Was it not possible to bring him back, sahib?’

Warren glared at the major, ‘No, it wasn’t. And I wouldn’t have done it if I could. He would only have faced a court martial, lost his rank, and perhaps been shot. Now, we’ll say nothing and his widow will get a pension.’

‘It is understood, sahib,’ the major insisted quietly, ‘but if he could have been brought back we would know why he ran away. Perhaps he would have seen how foolish he had been, and done better next time. He was a good officer.’

‘Was, is right,’ Warren said grimly. ‘You may go.’

Alone again he thought, it didn’t need much cogitation to know what had caused Shamsher Singh to behave so badly. He was disoriented, the noise and concussion having disconnected the nerve channels leaving him unable to respond to the normal commands and logic of the brain, but only to primeval messages from the solar plexus, as a drowning man will yet try to strangle his rescuer.

He waited, after eating a light supper in the RHQ mess dugout, until Major Bholanath came to him near eleven o’clock. The air was cold, and the sky overcast, with a wind that presaged more snow. Christmas Eve in the trenches, he thought: he thought of Christmas in England. His mother would have holly round the door of the Old Vicarage and mistletoe hanging from the lamp in the hall. There’d be children’s parties and charades and Louise would dress up in her mother’s cloak and teeter about in high-heeled shoes four sizes too big for her ...

The major saluted and said, ‘Is there permission to speak in Hindi, sahib?’

‘I suppose so. Yes.’

‘This Captain Sher Singh has no father, sahib. I know his family. His mother is a noble woman, strong to lift the burden of raising the family of six girls and this Sher Singh, who was the youngest. He says he was always afraid of women. They betrothed him to a girl of good family when he was six and it was to be consummated on his fifteenth birthday. But he failed. Again and again he failed to do what a man should. The girl left the house in shame and his mother hid her head, for she had borne a eunuch. Sher Singh says he was drawn to the love of man by an elder man, whom he named, and whom we of Ravi all know as a lover of boys.’

‘What do you recommend?’ Warren said.

The old major continued unhurriedly, ‘This sowar Janak with whom he was in bed was originally of C Squadron. During Holi celebrations two years ago, Sher Singh discovered that he was of the same persuasion. As Sher Singh was of D Squadron all was well.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it is our custom that no sin or fault shall lie if the lovers are of different squadrons, if they be of different ranks. If they be of the same rank, then they may be of the same squadron. But six months ago, Sher Singh, being infatuated, arranged for the sowar to be transferred to his own squadron, that he might see more of him.’

‘Why didn’t anyone stop it? The RM? You? You all knew, didn’t you?’

‘None knew but the previous rissaldar-major. Why he did not prevent the transfer, we do not know, nor did we ask. But it is said that Sher Singh, who is very rich, granted the RM some land of his at a very low price.’

‘Well?’

‘We recommend that Sowar Janak be posted back to C Squadron.’ Warren waited. After a time he said, ‘And that is all?’

‘We have spoken to Captain Sher Singh. We have spoken severely. He was weeping when we finished, and has sworn never to break our customs in this matter again.’

Warren thought, and that’ll be the end of it. No one will say another word. How could a regiment function, led by sodomites? ‘Did the rissaldar-major agree to this?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sahib.’

Warren said, ‘All right. See that the sowar is transferred.’

The major left. Warren sat alone at the table. He wished he could talk this matter over with Krishna Ram, a bottle of whisky between them. But Krishna was gone. And what would have been the use anyway, for no amount of talk would make either of them really accept the way the other’s mind worked? The true answer was the opposite of futile talk over a bottle ... simply an unyielding front. For victory there must be no compromise with Hindu gods, or superstitions, from now on. At his feet, deep in a dream, Shikari growled. ‘That’s it!’ Warren said. ‘No compromise!’

Krishna Ram stared forward, motionless. He wanted to turn his head, but it would not move. Nor would his eyes alone, however hard he tried to swivel them so that he could see what lay to right and left of what he was looking at. There was earth close in front of him, and presumably under him, and earth or mud in his mouth, and on his lips, which would not move, either. He lay on his stomach, his head twisted to the left. He could see farther with his left eye than his right, which was almost in the mud. There was snow in all the area he saw, and, about three feet away, the clear imprint of army boot nails in the snow, but becoming blurred as the snow continued to fall. It must be early.